The Harlequin's Kiss: Warhammer 40K (Path of the Incubus) One-Shot
by BeautysHarlequin
Summary: Rated T for Yaoi ie. mature themes. The path of the Incubus is a straight and heedless one. The Harlequin is free in how he ventures. So what does result in a battle between persistent lust and pure will? (Morr X Motley) An intricate read, in MUCH detail, an inspired one-shot. My fifth fanfiction. Reviews are appreciated and heeded. Cover of my own creation.


**The Harlequin's Kiss**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the WarHammer 40000 series, Games Workshop, Path of the Incubus, the Dark Eldar, the Shrine of Arhra, the Dysjunction, She Who Thirsts, Motley, Morr, the Milky Way galaxy or anything else possibly touched on in this story. All this amazing story content belongs respectively to Andy Chambers and Games Workshop, as well as all others involved. Nothing but the story idea in terms of the shipping and the take on the Motley X Morr shipping belongs to me.**

_A/N: Um… Ok._

_Firstly, yes, you're right. I should be working on My Obsession's next chapter. Unfortunately, however, I'm having a bit of a writer's block with that story, and after reading Path of the Incubus… _

_This shipping has simply stuck itself in my mind as my primary WH40K OTP. I cannot focus on PewDieCry with this on my mind._

_And what is this? What is this that I wanted to do?_

_I wanted to write a Morr X Motley aka. Morrtley One-Shot. _

_I am well aware that I am likely the only person to have done this. Not only that, but I KNOW I should not be doing this. WarHammer 40000 is Sci-Fi, Adventure, Horror and all that. It just simply is NOT a romance, and especially not so when it comes to the ill-minded Dark Eldar._

_But I couldn't help it, ok? I needed to try this. So I've done it. After this, I'll focus on PewDieCry again. So chill. Bear with my weirdo infatuations._

_Also, if you're a WH40K fan-boy/girl and are… turned off by these slash shippings, extinguish your flamers. This is what happens sometimes- I ship manly warriors together and think it's beautiful. I'm crazy, I know, but I don't need to hear it from you. _

_I do accept constructive criticism though, and I take requests, shipping anything faintly human: Eldar, Dark Eldar, Space Marine, Chaos Space Marine and the Imperial Guard. I don't do Orks, Necrons, Tau, Daemons, Tyranids, whatever other brutish race exists and I don't cross races unless they're of the same species._

_So enjoy it if you can. I think people out there wanted this kind of ship._

_Well, at least I know that I did._

_**Basic comprehension of the plotlines for Path of the Renegade and Path of the Incubus, as well as knowledge of the relevant characters, may provide a better understanding of this fan-fiction. In relation to the actual story (Path of the Incubus), this scene is set sometime between chapter 11 (The many blades of Arhra) and chapter 13 (Ascension), after the incident in which our beloved Motley and Morr were ambushed by the five incubi, and before their arrival at the steps of the shrine of Arhra. This fan-fiction relies on no altered events or happenings, but may rely on minor made-up or future events or details intended only to give weight to the plot. Otherwise, this work is parallel in context to the authentic plotline, and is not to be regarded as an AU. It is, however, essentially fan-made. Thank you.**_

THE SHRINE OF ARHRA was imposing to all those unfamiliar to it. Set deep into a vale impregnated with a miasma of thick mists and unfathomable mystery, little dared venture its land but those incubi whom claimed it, or those willing enough to give their lives in the hope of joining the Dark Kin in their sinister league. Trespassers and itinerants were often lost within a labyrinth of fallen onyx pillars and colossal statuettes engulfed in thick, coiling ivy common to the valley, origin of all incubi. Dark, spindly trees grasped far into the xanthous-hued haze that hung overhead, their core roots entrenched securely into the moist grit with a shallow system that spread far into murky pools of liquids long stagnant, and tumbled disorderly over unexpected edges into deeper pits that trailed off into bottomless black.

There was a prominent resonance of potent reverence upheld within the shadowy gorge, a holy grandeur that strangled the weak-willed and gave heightened awareness and resistless pride to those emphatically strong in soul. No doubt it instilled a sense of ominous peril into those who tread its bitter soils, but its intrigue lulled the majority of inquisitive individuals deep into its smoky embrace, and in turn was silent of the fore-curious souls whom now rightfully belonged to the archaic shrine.

Those lost within the smog-inundated dell were unlikely ever found, and those found survived were unlikely to have let lived. In the remorseless hand of the incubi, those whom ventured their noble demesne free of true purpose were worthless and a blasphemy to Arhra, unwanted spirits haunting seraphic land whose only fate then was to be crushed. To be heeded by the incubi was to be strong at heart and fierce in demeanour, else one would face almost certain eradication. It was not often that wanderers would enter the dangerous lands, anyhow, considering the great lengths taken to travel the webway in order of arriving there. Those who valued their lives, the majority you could say, were sure to deprive themselves of reason to seek the shrine, or to avoid infatuating themselves with the noble treasures the great land beheld. Personal measures were taken to respect the land of Arhra, and to leave his divine legacy untouched.

However, such measures at one point or another have but to be broken. The two foreign individuals who currently travelled the vast mists were secure enough to say they had purpose in entering Arhra's sacred realm, but perhaps, in response to the lethal ambush previously driven upon them, their reasoning just might not be enough. Needless to state, one of the two, a being once strictly acquainted to the valley they wandered, was by no means willing to turn back, and as so his cohort obediently followed him, quiet of complaint and fresh on his heels.

Motley nimbly spun his unusual pistol within slender, gloved hands; swift feet only just grazing the dirt below as he boredly pirouetted after his broad companion. The close-combat weapon was familiar in his dextrous hold as quick fingers stroked and teased at the ridges of the pistol, always keeping a lazy whisper of a touch on the wraithbone weapon to ensure that it would not happen to fall away. The harlequin upheld his fancy palm tricks for minutes at a time, performing well for a nonexistent audience as he would end fantastic turns of the pistol about his wrists with a dramatic pose of the gun and his knee cocked high. Other times he would arch his body and jest with the trigger rapping softly but dangerously against his index finger, limbs splayed gloriously about him in an attempt at a twisted handstand or a mockery of a bow.

Throughout all this senseless dancing, Morr would make no admonition of his puerile companion as he trudged onwards unto his previous abode, other things of far greater importance deluging at his mind. Motley was much less occupied though, and a close-to-accidental fumbling with his gun that almost sent monofilament wires exploding throughout his head had him awkwardly holstering the Harlequin's Kiss at his waist, settling back on a lissom prance that altered on either of Morr's flanks. As was usual, Motley couldn't help but shatter the fine silence that had dominated the atmosphere about them since the ambush of prior, his upbeat tone of voice unbidden and alien in the dank atmosphere of the dale they journeyed through.

"I've been meaning to ask you a question, Morr. Permission to proceed?" His words were polite, a domino-masked face turned inquisitively to the side as the incubus stormed inexorably forward, his blank-faced helm not altering in direction once as he responded to Motley's courteous request with no more than a brief pause.

"Proceed."  
Thin scarlet lips turned up at the answer he received, however shallow in wording it might have been. The harlequin was always delighted to draw a positive reaction out of who he liked to think his friend. Despite being a pace or two behind, the supple jester leaned leisurely forward at a half-ninety degree angle as he walked, and spoke comfortably as if at level with his lofty companion.

"Let's assume your hierarchs forgive you for your little… mishap," Motley paused to leap effortlessly over felled masonry knee-high. His speech quickly continued as if never distracted. "Assume they judge the unfortunate incident of previous to be in your favour, an outcome seized entirely by fate and not of your doing… Assume you are proclaimed guiltless. What then?" He fell into a waiting silence as he sprinted easily in time of the incubus' long strides. It appeared without effort that Morr decided upon a steady reply.

"I will do as they instruct me to do. If I must undergo punishment in order to atone for the sins of the past, I shall."

"But what if," Motley directly intoned with a slight drawl, sure that the Aspect-warrior did not entirely understand him. "What if there is no punishment to receive...?"

"I find that highly improbable." The incubus rumbled over the clamorous scuffing of his black iron-hide boots, picking up pace in his sudden dedication. Motley increased the tempo of his swaying stride in response to his cohort's. "The obliteration of my archon will not settle unobserved. I will, at the very least, see to it."

The Harlequin furrowed his brow as if disenchanted, finding it difficult to relate to Morr's unremitting want for being punished. It was as if talk of potential chastisement enthused him, as if Morr yearned to be rebuked, even if it should promise a resolute death. His unhesitant words were ones of practiced devotion, honest in their very interpretation. They had always been since the day Morr was borne incubus to the late Archon Kraillach- the master Morr continued to offer his life-blood for even in his regal death.

No doubt the incubi's heedless devotion to his deceased archon fascinated Motley. In reality, everything concerning Morr enthralled the harlequin, and that was perhaps part of the reason, excluding moral obligation, as to why he stayed by his side. From his stoic demeanour to apparent impassiveness, his narrow views on duty, level-headed confidence and uncanny strengths, Morr was not the average Dark Kin that Motley would hassle himself over in pursuing. The majority of the Dark Eldar were selfish individuals whom cared only for what they could extract painfully out of others, gouging themselves on the sadistic cruelties of the worlds they exploited, continuing to cheat their mortality until consumed wholly by She Who Thirsts.

Morr seemed at least partially free of this ever-present murder-lust that appeared to devour the conscience of the Dark Kin. Motley knew the incubus would kill without thought, that he would dispassionately string together the bloodied limbs of his foes as trophies or take advantage of another if it only meant to make efficient his duties, but he didn't seem to have the... exhilarating _lust_ that otherwise ran prevalent and wild within all Dark Eldar. Most expressed it through the licking of blades or the questing tip of the sharpest gun, but Morr didn't have that passionate spur in him when he fought. He fought only by obligation, and never once was he seen to take a life not commanded or essential to him.

The harlequin questioned this fundamental absence strongly, the dearth of delicate desires. Didn't Morr have his cravings and preferences, his little fetishes and quirks that would have him temporarily cast aside whatever else that may matter if only to relish in the little things that pleased him? Oh, Motley knew he had them. Motley himself had his own personal little cravings, unspoken diminutive things that twisted slyly at the corners of his lips and set him spinning in his typical carelessness and apparent bliss. The harlequin had enough of an intimate lust in him to make certain that there was not one soul in the entire Milky Way galaxy that did not yearn over their own central desires either, and Morr was no exception.

So surely the incubus was not so dissimilar to other Eldar. It was in fact quite likely that Morr had his own surreptitious desires too. Such complicated thoughts didn't much help relieve the harlequin though, not at all, for there still remained the most ultimate question to be pondered-

On what basis did Morr's lust exist?

Motley allowed quiet to envelope them once more as he considered the selfless words of his fellow incubus and the enquiring vortex of his intelligent psyche, slowly straightening his back with a hand poised comically in thought before pursed lips. After a few moments of little sound but their coordinated movement and the swirling mists whispering about them, the harlequin perked out of his scrutiny and spiralled lazily to Morr's other side to speak again. At this point the incubus altered his vector to avoid dense marshland, and Motley followed trusting and with little diverted attention from the contents of his diverse mind.

"Say, Morr..." The harlequin posed conversation again with another short pause, should the incubus have wanted to hush him. In no clear signs he did. "Say they do deal on you punishment, as you are so intent on thinking." Motley turned his palms and arms about him in dramatic gestures that came naturally whilst speaking. He flicked a wrist and cocked his head at an angle as he mused over Morr's intended fate. "Lovely. You receive your castigation, and you'll serve them in whatever way they have you do. Right?"

"Correct..." Morr responded slowly, with the slightest nod of his head. The Harlequin pressed together his claret-tinted lips for a moment, darting forward with subtle elegance to gain hold on the narrow trunk of a peripheral tree, using fluid momentum to swing elegantly twice around it before landing himself in a walk beside his companion once more. The motion was entirely unnecessary, but oddly enough was not felt to be out of place. Motley spoke fluently in his dynamic gait, the incubus continuously proving to be attentive and listening despite the minute distractions.

"Great. So, eventually you'll be forgiven by your hierarchs and although they might still shun you,-" Motley was fast to list the possibility of exile just in case Morr lapsed into a misanthropic lecture of some sort. "-all that is said and done, and our purpose here is spent. So, assuming we leave the district..." Motley turned his head to the side, soft-clad feet following each other in rhythmic succession as he directly addressed the incubus. "What will you decide to do next?"

Morr did not answer for a while, his unyielding stare glowing scarlet in the gloomy atmosphere encompassing them. His forthcoming words had a hint of malice to them when he responded. "Are you expecting something of me?"

His dark accusation was instantly met with rushed, jittery laughter. Motley swatted his hand through the eddy of dense air about them. "Oh, Morr, I don't think you dense in the least, but..." Eyebrows narrowed behind the insipid and reflective domino mask. "Frankly, yes. You will help me put an end to the Dysjunction following this little expedition of yours, won't you?"

There was hardly a subtle change in the incubi's solid demeanour. "I'll consider the matter."

In offering of the vague antiphon, the harlequin slowed before entirely halting in his energetic pace. Morr only too stopped moving when he saw that Motley refused to follow despite their distance, paces before enveloped into the invisibility of the surrounding fog. There was a profound minute of silence suspended between them; a bitter stale-mate Morr finally cared to rupture. "What is it?" He growled with a vituperative edge, obviously wanting to arrive at his sacred destination as soon as he could manage to. The motley-clad one, his grey-checkered outfit hazy within the blue-steel mist, was unthreatened by his apparent urgency though.

"I'll make this clear, Morr." Motley's chin darted up in a rapid movement, flashing the pale underside of his faintly-tattooed neck in a gesture that suggested he was, quite ironically, not fooling around. "I only follow you on the guise that you will soon help me recover Commoragh as it falls, just as I have assisted you in reaching your shrine. If you deny me my intere-"

"I never asked for your help, little clown." Morr interrupted coldly. "No doubt you have assisted me, but nothing on my tongue had encouraged you to do so."

Motley threw his hands out with a faint sense of desperation, trying to reach out to the unreceptive warrior. "But isn't it simply appropriate to return the favour? I would do this for you, Morr, but you, in return, would abandon me even when your duty is all spent?"

Crystalline eyes of bloodiest red only smouldered callously. "I am Dark Kin, child of Kaela Mensha Khaine, student of noble Phoenix Lord Arhra. I have no interest in _your_ insignificant jests, harlequin."

Said harlequin sneered with newfound irritation, arching his body into an angry cat-like posture in response to the incubi's blatant arrogance. He seemed to realise his patient take to things was likely too weak, and now approached the incubus in a far more diverse and hostile manner. "What? So you finally admit to being as selfish as the rest of the Dark Eldar? How pathetic, Morr, I've truly overestimated you. Not only are you of muddied Exodite blood," Motley emitted a derisory sneer, "but you've the egotistical soul of the Lost Ones too."

The atmosphere about them was suddenly soiled deadly and scintillating with the malignant flame of disparity and scorn. Morr reached up and dislodged his giant klaive from his shoulder-blades, sweeping it firmly into the wet soils below in one sinuous, despairing motion. The resounding _thunk_ of the double-handed blade on malleable earth indented it largely and sent distant tremors through the nimble warrior metres away. The humid air writhed around them, but Motley was not afraid, despite the needle-edged forewarning.

"Do you challenge me with your sightless mockery, Motley?" The incubus' narrow request for clarification, a grave request that could just as well end the harlequin's life, had Motley drop his mimicry of the egocentric attitude of the craftworld Eldar to speak with a reluctant sigh. _That_ attempt hadn't gotten him too far either.

"No." He admitted, crossing his arms over his chest with a resigned pout that Morr didn't buy. "I just want to know what possible reason exists that makes you doubt helping me. It doesn't appear that you particularly savour your life and are afraid to risk it. You say you are Dark Kin, but it puzzles me as to why you would hesitate to save whom you claim to be your brethren... Why is that so?"  
Morr calmed a bit, but did not retract his weapon and refused to withdraw the aggravation or acuity from his tone of voice. "You listen not well enough; I have taken your appeal into consideration, and will tend to Commoragh if I see it fit. Do you understand?"

An exasperated sigh drew out in the space between them. "You well know that isn't so clear of an answer, Morr."

An uncalled-for grumbling sounded from deep within the incubi's onyx-plated armour, the fine neon-green edging trembling in response to low-pitched timbre. He managed to answer the harlequin evenly, but with great perseverance. "I shall do as I please. After compensating for the cause of my master's death, I will follow what my heart bids me to do. Let us leave now." But what Morr had intended as a succinct closure only opened up as a myriad of other conversational pathways for the eager harlequin to follow. No doubt the jester would not set his immediate interests free just yet.

"No," Motley ensued, taking a lithe step forward. "What do you mean by following your heart, Morr?"

The incubus snorted, shifting his lowered sword a fraction and carving a wide arc into the dirt in the process. "I will follow the teachings of Arhra, that is. Nothing else, and by no chance am I abiding to your whims."

The statement was uncompromising, but Motley shook his head deftly at it. "This isn't about me or Commoragh anymore. I know you say that you follow the will of Arhra, and that I clearly see is in play, but what about _your_ will?"

If the frozen eyes of the incubi's helm could have slanted further, they'd be narrowed askew. The harlequin had indicated that he was now toying with personal topics, rather close to probing at forbidden buttons. "What are you intending, Motley?"

"I mean to be straight-forward. Don't you have your own desires, Morr? Surely the incubi also have a will of their own. Your master is, after all, gone. Aren't you granted the pursuance of the things that solely intrigue you, instead of that in which others have wants?"

The incubus paused shortly before disclosing his thoughts. "The prospects of… desires and… freedom do not necessarily appeal to me." The answer was blunt but in a considerate tone, and the harlequin stalked forward with a dramatic swipe of his hand and roll of his eyes. His confident movements seemed to be building off of an unknown intent Morr was nothing trusting of.

"Oh, what, Morr. You speak like you've no purpose in life but to determine the needs of others. Surely that isn't true." Motley came to a sharp stop in front of the silent incubus, arms folded across his mottled tunic and outfit of brilliant greys. When he was not replied to, the harlequin tipped his head at an elevated angle and continued. "I've never met an Eldar, pure-hearted or consumed by Chaos, whom was entirely free of heart's desire. I know that you simply can't be a first. You might be different in temperament to the others, Morr, but I know there's something in there." A faint jest was made as a gloved hand motioned vaguely at the taller warrior's chest.

When answerable, Morr's obstinate confidence had returned to his dialogue. "You know nothing of me, little clown. I exist to serve the purpose of others. That is where I find my satisfaction, not in worthless wonders the bland ones care to fawn over. I…"

"Why do you bother to lie? It's evident how you neglect yourself."

The danger had returned in tone. "Dare not label me as deceitful, Motley. I'll disunite you from your limbs."

"Prove it, then."  
"What is it?"

"It won't take long. Let me test you only to see just how physically severed you are from your intimate self."

Morr snarled, clearly unamused by this gratuitous proposal. He was conveniently reminded that he should be fast before the shrine at this current time, and would be if Motley had not been holding him back with his hollow enquiries. "I do not have the time to dabble in your insignificant games, harlequin. Let us-"

"Allow me this one thing," Motley interrupted swiftly. Through the almond-shaped holes of his domino visor, obsidian eyes glittered craftily, his body physics changed into one of sleek, arcane stance. "Perform this one test, in which you must not react in the least to all I do, and I swear on the shrine of Arhra not to utter a mere word until we reach our destination. Fair?"

Morr glared at the harlequin, whom only batted at his mouth in a comical yawn as he awaited the one acceptable response he'd care to receive. The incubus knew now was the best of times to ditch this living epitome of distraction, with nothing but a little of his pride hurt and his hands free in independence. On the other hand, he knew the harlequin was a valuable asset in terms of combat, the lithe warrior trusted enough to watch Morr's back. It was probably one of the very few reasons he preferred the company, but he was now well aware that he would get nowhere with Motley unless he complied with his trivial interests to a certain extent. After much debate, Morr slowly reinstated his weapon at his back and blankly regarded the growing, vibrant grin of the male opposite him as he waited in strain.

"Well-thought," Motley crowed softly under his breath, bringing a slight undertone to his voice and apparent slyness to what was discernable of his masked expression. The feeling that accumulated in Morr was not a pleasant one. "I'll explain the rules of my little game, and then we can play." The jester clasped his hands tightly together as if enthralled, before he began to prance lightly about the incubus in a brisk synopsis of his perverse mind.

"The aim is to persevere, to withstand without giving in by any method optional. Whether it is of repulse, of consent, of irritation, of boredom, of the hidden lust this sweet activity intends to draw from you… You are not to react. You receive me without response. Also, you needn't worry; I don't intend to harm you in any way. In the same manner, you are not to get physical either. Do not move, do not speak. Simple?" Morr still did not mitigate his suspicious frown; the dancing form encircling him had deliberated something, and he was almost certain he would not appreciate it. The possibilities concerning what he might have to endure quietly unnerved him, but...

Surely Morr would prevail, of that he must have confidence. He would prevail and show the harlequin what proper self-control meant. He would show him how glorious the path of the incubus truly is, and then maybe he could skin the fool alive for wasting such precious time of his.

Motley cast a wild spin in front of the heavily clad warrior, skimming the dirt underfoot as he halted and caught himself to speak with a mischievous smirk. "On a side-note, I do believe I have played this game before with an acquaintance of yours… Sindiel, was it?" A hint of wryness further complicated his amused expression. "The poor soul was so confused within himself, especially considering his flitting loyalty to the many Eldritch factions… I dare say I smartened him up a bit." _(A/N: …Yes, I ship Motley X Sindiel as well…)_

Motley's baleful snigger was swiftly brushed off by an abrupt snort. "It matters not to me. Make haste with this pathetic game of yours so we may be on our way. Soon you will see how quickly you'll be spent with a competitor like I. I swear not to yield to you, little clown." An almost competitive spirit came out in Morr when he declared himself, but his unremitting confidence just may have only spurred the harlequin on further.

Morr's confident sneer was cut short when Motley suddenly stepped far too close for comfort, his slender, partially cloaked chest in near contact with the steely shell of the incubi's upper abdomen. Morr was quietly bewildered at the intimate and unexpected move of his sworn challenger, seizing up in immediate response. The recognizable gleam in the harlequin's vivid eyes complimented the passionate smile that curved at his face and the dissipated whisper of his breath at the incubus' lowered chin.

"Only in fairness, friend, I hardly plan to go easy on you either."

Morr had to brace himself from wrenching away from the unusual feather-like touch of gentle fingers caressing the numerous plates of nerve-sensitive armour he brandished. Under the stygian sheath of his holstered weapon, trailing through the long streams of ornamental banners tied at his waist, brushing teasingly at the edges of abdominal plates that directly shaped the toned muscle underneath, the fingers were quick and unyielding, leaving very few dimensions of the incubus' available body untouched.

By no means was Morr used to any of such contact, and immediately was repulsed by the licentious actions of the unpredictable harlequin. He glared uncertainly down at Motley's face, held closer than it had ever been before, his domino mask beading and glittering in the mist and his gaze fast on Morr for any hint of a reaction. He received none from the blank-faced helm, and maybe in a infinitesimal show of… frustration did his hands travel further up the ridged back of the incubus, behind the giant klaive and between the two large shoulder-blades jutting out of him to settle there, using his new hold to pull himself closer. Morr stayed sure to keep quiet, breathing heavily into his visor as he waited out the worst.

And by Arhra, was it delivered slowly.

Morr reminded Motley greatly of a statue- no matter the value of a performance set before one, it would not applaud nor critique, and would show neither appreciation nor discontent. Maybe it was his headdress that lent Morr this impassive characteristic, but Motley, finally gifted the moment, wanted to make good use of their distracted time and degrade the incubus' walls even if only temporarily. If it meant tempting his opponent in gradual motions, manipulating his impatience to draw the winning reaction he desired out of him, so be it. Motley settled on a half-smile as his questing hands found spaces between the sleek plates of armour at Morr's back, kneading the tensed muscles sheltered underneath. It was a short moment before his chin arched up to nibble gently at the neon-green frame of the onyx helmet, drawing the slightest fractious sigh from the incubus.

In a way, it was a slight-bit revolting in how Motley reminded his self of a wych, trying to woo her victim with teasing caresses and exuberant, lustful gestures that declared her willingness. As soon as her prey was drawn in whole-heartedly, she would shatter the illusion of shameless infatuation, finding her truest pleasure in picking apart the unfortunate victim with her fine blades of desire. In a manner quite similar, here was Motley, searching intimately for his companion's weakness if only for his own self-indulgent satisfaction, a city wasting away while the entertainer and guard played an illicit game with one another.

Not only so, but this sort of forbidden encounter would most certainly be kept upon sewed lips. The harlequin was well aware of the much-needed limitations the Dark Eldar had yet to set for themselves; the pleasure cult would endlessly dabble in the irreligious things that solely interested them, renowned to keep their unholy deeds alleged but not evident, flaunted carelessly in amused eyes or withered mockingly on the tips of tongues. Motley, loyal to no particular faction, wasn't much perturbed by crossing boundaries as he had his whole life and thus was guiltless in showing affinity towards those of the same sex. However, it was here, in his sensuous plight, where he passionately sought the personal opinions of Morr, and by no doubt was he delighted that the stubborn incubus hadn't pulled out just yet. As silently so, Motley was convinced that neither would breathe a word of their unlawful contact after all was said and done. If the fickle Sindiel could keep his mouth shut about their 'enlightening' encounter, so could Morr.

In other terms, nothing remained holding the harlequin back, and he didn't plan to lay idle either.

Motley had admittedly started to succumb to boredom, his hands monotonously trailing against Morr's sides in vertical patterns and his mouth, poised at the rim of the steely helmet, already well-learned in the shape of the fine iron-hide. The harlequin pulled back a little after some thought, his hands resting still on the slight curve of the incubi's waist, his body smoothly arched as he gazed steadily up at him. Morr, so far having remained tolerant, cocked his head lightly upwards in a faint sense of triumph towards Motley's apparent hiatus. "Is that your worst, clown?" There was an air of contempt to his voice, a derisive remark, borderline to challenge, that the harlequin brushed off nonchalantly when he reached up to carefully finger the ridges of the helm at its sides.

"No," He answered in a soft tone as the velvety material of his glove found its way through the gaps in Morr's armour once again, brushing delicately against skin and causing the incubus an involuntary shudder. "Just…" Motley tilted his head in quiet immersion as he navigated his fingers around on the helmet's interior, spurring an uncomfortable rumble from within the Aspect warrior's chest that was hard to define in emotion. The adverse reaction caused a spark of uncertainty beyond Morr's crystalline eyepieces and a faint grin on the harlequin's crimson lips, which soon pursed in an 'oh' when he found what he was feeling for.

Motley rapped his fingertips sharply against the vibratory sensors on the shallow insides of the helm; it buzzed responsively against his faint touch, and Morr grunted in slight perplexity when the tusks that framed his mouthpiece shifted back someway into the headdress, widening the space between them. The movement of the nerve-zapping faceguards was followed closely by the resounding _shunk_ of metal as the visor surrounding his mouth split and tremored as it retreated to either side. As suddenly, Morr's mouth up to the defining tip of his nose was now visible, and at this discovery Motley allowed himself a full grin.

Morr grimaced in realisation when he could taste the heavy fog on his exposed tongue, his noticeable scowl deepening further as he watched Motley clearly enjoying himself, relishing in the ability to see exactly how the incubus was feeling at that moment. "There." He muttered to himself in content, with a lingering smile to which Morr rolled his hidden eyes (thank Khaine the upper half of his face was secreted from view).

When the incubus spoke it was of deepening irritation, unnerved at the manner in which Motley's vivacious gaze was trained avidly on his moving mouth. "If you wanted my visor removed, you simply could have asked." He drawled coldly. "A mere thought process on my part would have saved all your gauche fumbling. Not only so, but had you touched upon any other neighbouring sensory plate, you'd have faced momentary paralysis incurred by my inbuilt nervous-defibrillator organs... So listen here, Motley, you look foolish."

"Hush," Quieted the harlequin with his ever-present smile, leaning forward again to really appreciate the sight of Morr's actual lips, the words they formed uninteresting to him. "You breach our rules in speaking. Besides, that was great fun, that." He raised an eager hand to touch him again, but this time Morr drew back a fair bit, his jaw rigid as he did so.

Motley allowed his hand to suspend itself, quirking a concealed eyebrow at the warrior's sudden evasiveness. Morr was quick to justify his unwillingness. "Remind me as to why I am partaking in this non-consensual activity, when I should instead be seeing to the brotherhood."

An immediate pout was made in response to the incubi's doubtful inquiry, Motley pulling the length of his body against Morr's and looking almost pleadingly up at his unremitting half-expression. "You've already consented to this game, my dear friend. Surely you won't throw in the towel at this point. Play with me a little longer; please, and..."

A pregnant pause. "And...?"

"And I'll be the most loyal, most obedient cohort you've ever known. I'll be good and stay quiet whenever you want me to, and kill whomever you want when you want me to. Just give me this one pleasure, Morr, at least allow me my _own_ lust."

Morr snorted, but he lacked his usual harshness. "You fail to motivate me clown, but your submissiveness admittedly amuses me. Hurry yourself." He relaxed his chin a fair bit, lowering it enough that it brushed the harlequin's upheld fingertips and gave rise to a sort of realisation in Motley.

In a very subtle and indirect way, the incubus was conforming to Motley's wishes. Had he been as dark-hearted and withdrawn as he normally showed himself to be, there was no way he'd be so... _willing_ to abandon his duties for the otherwise insignificant harlequin. Was he aware of how complacent he was being? Motley was not about to remind him, should he be robbed of such rare benefits. The harlequin rested his cosseted fingers over the calloused surface of the incubi's chin with a gracious smile.

Taking his time to study the weathered lower face of the incubus by simple touch, Motley found a greater sense of admiration beginning to build in him, almost a type of reverence for Morr as he truly appreciated what a fine choice he had made in pursuing him. Morr's face was angular but surprisingly soft, irregular in the areas where long ago a knife had scored itself or crushing metal had made its permanent indent. It wasn't necessarily a beautiful face, falling behind on the intrinsic physical elegance the rest of the Eldar possessed, but it was most definitely unique, and was a face Motley undeniably wasn't ashamed to awe himself over.

His favourite of such scars was a groove that ran directly below his lower lip, a vertical and palpable nick that was a fraction closer to the left corner of his mouth than the right, and shifted when the incubus breathed from over his tongue. His pale face was shaded naturally by his prominent features, casting a sense of darkness about him that all Dark Eldar closely beheld, but dimmed evermore by the cicatrix formed under his mouth. Motley allowed himself to memorise these features, for he was not sure if he'd be so able to sight them again, but decided to progress in their game before Morr became utterly fed-up and declared this a waste of time (which it was).

Motley swiftly reached up on his toes and pressed his mouth gently to the incubus' chin, to which he received a sharp intake of breath as he slowly moved along the edge of his fine jawbone. Morr's skin was warm with unquestionable life, and Motley's gaze became half-lidded as he accustomed himself to the faint taste of skin not his own, tainted with the slightest zing of salinity but alluring all the same. Gloved fingers absently dropped from above to rest lightly on the lustrous armoury plates at his broad hips, the harlequin's moving mouth sinking into the long, depressed crevice under the incubus' jowl. He explored the pale skin of his exposed throat thoroughly, allowing no space untouched in his dissolute approach.

Throughout all this, Morr tried his hardest not to make obvious his shudders of rejection and impulse alike. He was rebuffed at the unbidden, alien touches of the harlequin warrior close to his mouth, his bitter-sweet kisses practically framing the lower half of his face, but disliking even more how he failed to express his dissuasion enough to pull away. Morr, in a wicked sense, liked the diverse touch that had some trait similar to devouring the souls of the deceased; a sensuous, compelling, arousing taste that was near impossible to resist as it teased at the sore muscles of his strict morale.

Of course, the Dark Eldar were borne to deter boundaries; to revel in the things that pleased them, similar to the manner their esteemed forefathers previous to the Fall had delved. The loyal brotherhood were said to be of the few of the dark kin who at least beheld some sort of self-restraint, yet look- here in flesh was the clever Masqued One, effortlessly proving the incubi's code weak, showing Morr to be on the knife's edge of false and bloated speech.

And how pathetic was it that despite all this insight he still ignored his entire fundamental resolve, unwilling to wrench himself from the captivating embrace of ill-intending lust, a once-revered pride lost to a cupidity that would put She Who Thirsts to shame...

The answer was in his idleness when Motley allowed his aesthetically sharpened incisors to graze at the surface of Morr's chin, over... and over... and over again. Enticing trails of carnal caresses raked along every inch of his skin, followed by the soothing touch of lips that smothered the lingering acuminous sting. Eyes shut to the intricate silver framework of the harlequin's domino mask, hands fisting as he endured and relished, battling internally as he stationed himself in an ambiguous facade.

Fingers danced lightly over him again, a slender body grinding rhythmically against his own. He wanted to forget, but the unholy reality of the situation relentlessly yanked him above, only moments from being submerged in ceaseless pleasure. Now it took every ounce of his dignity not to cave in, to return the unbidden lust that clawed at his ethics just as much as they did Motley's, to lose their sick game if only to answer the aphrodisia he'd been neglecting his entire life prior to this.

The prospect of losing was augural and a sorrowing issue, something Morr would regret almost as much as the dishonourable killing of his archon. No sane being found pleasure in being hoaxed by a fool, especially a soul as staid as Morr, but when driven to this unbearable point, not to mention a point not often visited...

The incubus gave an audible growl, his face lowering a miniscule bit and interrupting Motley's relentless chain of criss-crossing streaks pared temptingly over him. The harlequin shivered in response, face pulling back a little to look into the glistening optics of the larger warrior. "Morr?" He whispered quietly, his voice uncertain as his hands dropped to curl over the incubus' tightened fists in a gesture more affectionate than anything else.

The incubi's voice was dead, dense and remote. "Stop. We should go."

"What? But-"

"Enough of this, Motley!" Blatant fury darkened the guard's sudden resolve; he raised a gauntleted hand to gain grip on the harlequin's shoulder, to which the tenacious jester pulled an unhappy frown. "Of all time to dabble in things lacking necessity, you choose a moment unfitting for the both of us. That is enough. We _will_ go." The anger dwindled from his voice but not his firmness, abandoning his hold on Motley and shaking his head shortly in unspoken disbelief.

Any further drawn in and Morr would have been so close to defying everything he lived by, lured into things incongruous for one of his sort. Motley flaunted the powers of seduction well, Morr would admit, but where he was a beguiled fool the incubus simply wasn't. This tryst of theirs lacked moral righteousness on all levels- if you disregarded the Dark Eldritch atavistic nature, that is- and they both knew it well. Now was certainly not the time to relent to their personal sentiment, the incubus atypically had to remind himself.

"Well…" Motley started in slaying the discomfited silence, eventually receiving his distracted companion's gaze. The harlequin stood with his chin lowered, a leg half-crossed behind the other as he pawed absently at the dirt with his shoe. Fiddling with his silver stone-studded girdle, he glanced back up at Morr, a lopsided half-smile wry on his face. "I suppose you'll have lost our game then."

After a terse pause the harlequin laughed mirthfully, his chortles polite in the sense that they were toned down and hidden behind a glove, but ultimately they were laced with scorn and apathetic triumph. Morr's insides dropped, vengeance broiled deep from within him. He had to persevere... This myopic clown was raised to provoke and persuade; it was best that he didn't give in to him. The loss the harlequin boasted of was one unfairly forced upon him. He mustn't get angry. The conditions were not right. The upkeep of his hubris was justifiable. He mustn't get angry.

"Do I sense hesitation, Morr?"

And the tongue of the fool was bound to be detached some time soon.

His silent, venomous glare of crimson did not avert itself from Motley as the jester grinned brightly up at him in turn, unperturbed. His words were of practised, casual persuasion, light-hearted but intent in tone. He wasn't planning on letting his prey slip away, at least not without dealing upon it substantial psychosomatic damage first. Of all such traits, Morr wished there was some way to make the harlequin perhaps a little more... submissive.

However, at a loss for methods, the incubus settled for a cold, constrained explanation instead.

"This is no loss of mine, Motley, for I have somewhere to be. Your game is deferred in the face of priority- make no mistake in indulging yourself."

"Oh?" Motley immediately drawled a thick challenge, his head inclined towards the incubus in a sense of fearlessness. "So you say you give up only on the nous that you have little time to waste on unimportant matters- matters such as your immediate person?"

"Exactly." Morr's retort was simple and brash, to which the harlequin crowed incredulously. The coy smile was now absent from his features, eyes narrowed in unremittent fury towards the warrior's arrogance instead.

"But it certainly wasn't that way beforehand, Morr! You were fine before anything happened! You had said yes to me, are your own words meaningless to you? Oh no, it's not that you have no time; we wouldn't be speaking like this if that was the case. You're just conflicted within yourself, unwilling to show that truly you are affected by the lure of passion far more than you pretend to be-!"

"You'd do well to silence yourself before I endeavour to assist you, fool. I need none of your impertinent troubles- you _do not_ wish to aggravate me any further. I have neither the stable interest nor time."

"No, you haven't the time," Motley continued heatedly, ignorant of the Morr's intense caveat, "but you will give me another chance, regardless your interests."

"Another chance?" rumbled the larger warrior, whom snarled a bitter, derisive laugh. His visible mouth curled into a disdainful scowl. "Another chance at what? Care to explain before I take one at slicing off your head?" Motley stared darkly at him for a moment's long pause, before dropping his hands to the sides and nimbly happening upon him. Morr shuddered at the sudden movement, preparing an irate rejoinder that the harlequin swiftly deterred by grabbing his broad shoulders and forcing himself upwards.

"It needs no explanation, you stupid incubus."

He pressed his mouth firmly to Morr's, crimson lips locking furiously against the other's as he parried to express all emotion at once. Unpredicting, the incubus gave a muffled gasp and staggered back a few steps, unable to disjoin himself from the passionate harlequin who sought a firm hold around his helm, forcing him into a kiss Morr had not quite registered correctly.

So rushed was his lascivious touch that where parted lips once ventured there flayed the questing tip of a tongue, where teeth nipped soundly at flesh almost to the extent of drawing blood came a mouth that sucked on his skin just as tenderly. Morr was baffled once more to the point of idleness; the harlequin's grip was flurried but unyielding, his breath dense in his mouth and hot against his palette of exposed skin. Hands were everywhere over his rigid shoulders, chest and back, legs brushed and crossed over his stolid own.

Eventually, and he did not know how or when, he finally gave in.

Morr no longer had the sense to know what was right, what he was supposed to be doing, why this was happening. For him there was only the all-consuming touch, the arms that traversed his, the tongue trailing over his lower lip, the glitter of the domino mask refracting about their fluttering eyes. There existed the flavour of extraordinary lusts on their delving tongues, the myriad of wanton growls choked in their throats, the clinking of metal colliding with metal, the hands searching and craving, the licentious beasts inside them raging, the starved satiations they both harboured finally given substance.

They had lost themselves to one another, with or without realisation, and in their cosseted bliss they did not relent for a time. The fog churned thickly about them, concealing their interwoven state in murky greys, at other times barren about the two warriors seemingly entranced in a passion like no other. Although the harlequin's desperate scrabble for ardour had mostly subsided, their mouths still enthused fluidly, captured by the other, parting a fraction of a second to assume a different angle or to take breath before sealing the distance again.

Their fervent kiss was by no doubt prurient but still somewhat careful. Teeth roamed, pricked and grazed but did not scar, saliva clashed and their tastes mingled, fingers wandered but even they set cautious boundaries, straying no further than the hips they could reach.

Sagacity returned to the harlequin first, whom would now take to his actions with a knowing smile, but made no effort to break their contact. If anything he stimulated Morr further, allowing his bottom lip to knead gently at the sensitive scar underlining the incubus' mouth, resting his palms on the sides of the open helm to guide him in their lengthy kiss, levelling it out to make it as equally enjoyable for the both of them. Of the things most daring Motley had attempted, however, was something that he hadn't used for such a purpose ever before...

Sometime after Morr had switched his hold on the harlequin's willowy waist did Motley happen upon said brilliant idea, the slyest of grins turning up at his tireless mouth. Gradually he allowed his motions to become more animated, his face darting fast about the other and feeling satisfied when Morr's pace closely followed. Their kiss remained steady for a while, relishing in the impulsive staccato of their teeth when they often collided or the faint clicks made as their lips manoeuvred hotly in response. It was only when the harlequin felt the most felicitous tempo was achieved and that all was set as he would perfectly desire it did he finally activate his Domino field.

Motley's image was instantly shattered into a thousand glimmering pieces; a harlequin of twirling lights in luscious magenta, spiteful greens and narcotic blues, a shimmering, cloudy vortex of his actual self and a projection of careening colours encompassing them. The high-tech device designed to provide its agile user with increased evasiveness found new purpose in an attractive display shot about the dense and gritty environment, scattering vibrant colours that suspended in the heavy air and dappled over the many skeletal trunks that surrounded the two. Hues of dynamic tones ricocheted off of the gleaming metals they brandished, sending blinding lights into their eyes that lulled them into a trance more beautiful than what they were already involved in.

The lithe warrior was now an iridescent blur as he forced his lips upon Morr's; a distorted person whom flickered in and out of reality, only to be replaced by clinquant shades that the incubus made out with feverishly. His memory of the glittering moment was erratic through heavy eyes... _flash_, determined lips danced against his own, _flash_, his fingers swept through bleeding colours, _flash_, he possessed in his hold so slim a waist, _flash_, the fractured embodiment of the rainbow leant amorously against him. Everything was bright, lively and opiate, where neither of them conceded to a break. Not even after moments drawn thin, when the Domino field timed out and the rhythm of rippling lights was suddenly made evanescent, did they part in touch, if anything their hold on each other grew stronger.

Even so, it was only a case of time before their affair drew to a close now. Their kisses were longer, slower, more evocative in touch. It had become more of a thing to make reminiscent, that they sought whatever warm touch they could receive, striving to desperately close whatever space existed between them before it would lay opened out forevermore. No such thing between them would ever happen again, the prospect fresh and imminent in their minds, and so they revelled in what they last had. They were more breathy than anything now, their mouths not necessarily touching anymore, but their silent thoughts wistful and fast on the other, their eyes tiredly opened and closed.

Although hard to say, it could have been Morr who ended their rendezvous, his hands quietly sliding from the harlequin's waist to his hips before retreating to his own sides entirely, his face pulling back a little to which Motley responded and took a slow step away. Their hearts still beat quickly, lips swollen and tender from their agitated touch, but they found the silent, and needless to say awkward, moment to regain their composure, straighten up and ponder on what exactly they had just done.

Motley was far more pleased with himself though, giving a polite cough and a few more short steps away to brush off his tunic and level his mask before stealing several glances at Morr. The incubus appeared stunned, his helm unblinking but his posture introverted if not ashamed. Now came the embarrassing moment of who would have to speak first, and of course the harlequin took the very honour.

"Well." He admitted a thousand words in one in a considerate voice (a little scratchy from all the groans of pleasure he'd been emanating), but Morr only stared off into the shrubbery opposite his companion, his visor sluggishly moving forward to seal up and hide his ravaged mouth with the ornate tusks following suit. The harlequin clicked his tongue, whistled a short tune and fidgeted as he glanced back at the incubus, the warrior entirely turned off. "That was... uh... gratifying."

There was a long, quiet moment before the incubus initiated speech, his tone far more hoarse than Motley's, to the other's surprise. "Harlequin, if you aren't any more a fool than you are now, you'll know I wish not to speak of this." Motley bobbed his head enthusiastically at Morr's hesitant answer, hands flitting about him in his usual distracted manner.

"Oh, yes, of course, no problem."

"Then we'll go." Funny wasn't it, that this time Motley didn't complain about having to leave. He watched the incubus give the slightest shake of his head, before turning and trudging off into the mists, simply expecting to be followed to where he was clearly due. The harlequin stood still for a while, body still pulsing with rich energy but clearly he was satisfied. He gave a thoughtful humph, before tapping at his chin and delivering himself a lively grin, restored to his default self. Two words left his mouth before he went bounding off after Morr, his hand distractedly finding the pistol at his waist and swinging it carelessly around again.

"I win."

_A/N: So... *shifts awkwardly*_

_PewDieCry it is._

_And where the Khorne Bezerkers chant, 'MAIM, KILL, BURN, MAIM, KILL, BURN!', your humble fan-fiction author calls, 'READ, FAVE, REVIEW, READ, FAVE, REVIEW!'._


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